


I Think We're Gonna Be Okay

by youcaptveitme



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3434477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcaptveitme/pseuds/youcaptveitme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Grantaire left', Enjolras breathed, the gravity of the situation finally hitting him." </p>
<p>Or the one where Enjolras screws up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think We're Gonna Be Okay

At six in the evening, Enjolras and Grantaire were usually enjoying dinner together, one of their most cherished times. But at six in the evening on a very particular Tuesday night, dinner was on the floor, courtesy of Grantaire, and Grantaire was bustling around the apartment packing a bag, courtesy of Enjolras. 

“R, you’re being ridiculous!” Enjolras shouted at his husband, twisting his wedding band around his finger. 

“No, Enjolras, you’re being ridiculous. I ask you to come to one gallery opening, and you can’t even do that for me! This is all one-sided, Enjolras,” Grantaire yelled back, anger flooding his voice. 

“Grantaire, I can’t miss a meeting!” Enjolras whimpered, feeling utterly desperate. 

“Yes, you can! Do you realize that Les Amis consist of our, oh, I don’t know, amis? They’d understand, Enj. Actually, they’d be thrilled that you’re doing something for me! Why can’t you understand that?” his husband shouted menacingly. 

“Grantaire, I do things for you all the time! We’re married, I love you. God, R, don’t leave,” Enjolras whispered, wringing his hands nervously. 

“Then act like it, damn it!” Grantaire screamed, slamming the door behind him. His duffel bag was heavy and full, meaning he wouldn’t return for a while. Enjolras sank into the couch, eyes beginning to redden. When Grantaire got mad, he got mad. The thought worried Enjolras. Since Grantaire was likely to not return, and Enjolras is already beginning to miss his husband, he figured he may as well call Combeferre. He picked up on the third ring. 

“Enjolras, mate, what’s up?” Combeferre asked.

“Grantaire left,” Enjolras breathed, the gravity of the situation finally hitting him. 

“He what?” Combeferre snapped, knowing it was most likely Enjolras’ fault. 

“I- we were arguing, and there was a lot of yelling, and he just left, Ferre! What do I do?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe call him?” 

“No, he won’t answer if he sees my number. I’ll call Eponine, he’s probably there.” 

“Wait, Enj, don’t-” Combeferre tried to choke out before Enjolras hangs up. 

Eponine answered on the first ring, and Enjolras winced, knowing that meant Grantaire was with her and she was just waiting to bite Enjolras’ head off. 

“Good evening, Monsieur Enjolras,” Eponine greeted, sarcasm dripping like venom from her words. 

“Hi, Eponine. Is R at yours?” Enjolras asked quietly, already knowing the answer. 

“Yes, Enjolras, he is,” Eponine said. Enjolras could hear Grantaire’s moans and Eponine saying “Gav, go make a cup of tea for R” as she tried to cover the speaker. 

“May I speak with him, please?” Enjolras begged, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he always did when he was stressed. Eponine sighed.

“No, Enjolras. I honestly don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” she answered truthfully, no doubt taking a glance at Grantaire’s body heaving with sobs. 

“I know it’s not. When can I, though?” Enjolras mumbled.

“Just… not right now, okay?” Eponine said sadly. Despite the fact that Grantaire was her best friend, she felt bad for Enjolras as well. Anyone could see that Grantaire made him a better person. 

“Alright. I’ll call tomorrow, Ep. Tell him I love him.” He hung up the phone. 

“What did he say?” Grantaire asked from the couch. Eponine shook her head. 

“He said he loves you,” she muttered. Grantaire sighed loudly, mumbling profanities. 

“R, why did you leave the apartment?” Eponine wondered. 

“He wouldn’t come to my gallery opening. Said he couldn’t leave the amis,” Grantaire spat, “he never does anything for me, Ep. I mean, yeah, he does little things, but not when it really matters.” 

“Taire, he needs to understand that you need his support, but you also need to understand that he is extremely dedicated to his cause,” Eponine said, a bit distraught. She and Feuilly were very good at communicating. Enjolras and Grantaire were obviously not. 

“I know he is, but I want him to be dedicated to me as well,” Grantaire told his best friend sadly. Eponine nodded in understanding. 

“I’ll come to your opening, R.” 

She went. It was a beautiful affair, a suit and tie occasion. Eponine wore a simple black dress, and Grantaire wore a classic suit and tie. Even Gavroche and Feuilly got dressed up to go to the ceremony. Grantaire’s latest works, beautiful abstract pieces, were absolutely stunning. The people loved them. Grantaire wished he could share his success with his husband, who should have been there.

Enjolras went to the meeting at the Musain, figuring it was pointless to miss it just because he and Grantaire fought. They argued all the time; it shouldn’t have been a big deal that they fought again, but it was. Enjolras could feel the guilt dripping down his back like molten lava, he could feel Grantaire’s desperation weighing on his heart like two thousand bricks, he could feel his wedding band sitting heavy on his finger, reminding him how important Grantaire was. 

When Enjolras finally returned to his apartment, he was disappointed to find that Grantaire still hadn’t returned. Not that he’d expected him to, but the empty apartment just kept reminding him of all the wrong he’d done. It was dreadfully prominent.   
That night, the left side of the bed was cold, and Enjolras found himself searching for the warmth of Grantaire’s arms. Grantaire, his husband, who was always warm, who always kissed him goodnight, who was always there for him, no matter the circumstance. At two-thirty in the morning on the Wednesday after Grantaire stormed out, Enjolras realized that he was the most important piece in his life.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Grantaire didn’t come home for a week. Eponine called and told Enjolras that he had landed another gallery opening, and was frantically working on pieces at the apartment she shared with Feuilly. Enjolras smiled, picturing the gorgeous, concentrated look Grantaire got when he was working on something. His brush strokes were immaculate, placed strategically around the canvas, each one having a meaning. 

“When is the opening?” Enjolras asked. 

“Sunday night, at seven. I’ll be going with Feuilly, and I’m expecting all of our other friends to be there as well. You? That’s a monopoly,” Eponine answered bitterly, and hung up the phone. 

Sunday night came slowly, dragging itself into Enjolras’ terrible week. When it finally arrived, he couldn’t have been more elated. He dressed in a black suit and tie, making sure to look extremely presentable. He couldn’t have his husband feeling like he was inadequate in the pretentious art gallery. Truthfully, Grantaire preferred the smaller, intimate galleries, as he had told Enjolras once. This one was large, white, and modern, showcasing all of the latest works from Parisian artists. It was a big deal to be invited to show work at this particular gallery.  
When Enjolras’ taxi arrived at the apartment building, he took a shaky breath and slipped in. He adjusted his tie and readjusted his tie the entire way to the gallery, but hesitantly walked towards Grantaire’s exhibition when he arrived. He could tell it was Grantaire’s based off of the huge amount of people that were gathered in a bright white room. His first thought when walking in was red. The paintings that Grantaire had been working on for so long were red. They were incredible, but they looked angry, his brush strokes showing up in slashes and punctual marks rather than long, eloquent lines. Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder if they were inspired by him.   
After what seemed like hours, Grantaire appeared in the crowd, suit immaculately worn, hair tamed enough so he’d look presentable, but not enough so he didn’t look like himself. Enjolras’ heart stopped. 

“Grantaire,” he breathed. His husband searched the crowd for a few minutes, looking for someone. When his eyes landed on Enjolras’, they lit up. He tried to hide his growing smile, and Enjolras did the same. Enjolras began to make his way towards Grantaire, but before he could make it into the artist’s strong arms, a pretentious-looking art curator with wire glasses and a pressed navy suit snatched him away to answer questions about his art. Enjolras got close enough to find the title of the paintings: Apollo. His breath hitched. Grantaire had been inspired by Enjolras. Not that he wasn’t always inspired by Enjolras, as he had told him several times, but this was different. These paintings meant something to Grantaire, more than the others did. Enjolras couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward, into the circle of curators, right behind Grantaire. Enjolras could smell his husband’s signature blend of paint, coffee, and the cologne he had picked out for him.   
When the curators sank into the crowd, Grantaire took a step back, pressing himself against Enjolras, who was a bit taller. Enjolras instinctively wrapped his arms around Grantaire, inhaling his scent, feeling his heartbeat, and feeling completely and utterly whole again. Grantaire turned around, mimicking Enjolras by wrapping his strong arms around his husband’s slim frame. His heart slowed down, indicating that he was comfortable again. 

“Hey,” Enjolras whispered into Grantaire’s hair. 

“Hey,” Grantaire whispered back, “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, R. I’m so sorry, love, I know I should be there for you, and I promise I will be. You’re the most important person in my life. I will be there for you,” Enjolras exclaimed quietly, gripping the back of his husband’s tux. Grantaire kissed his neck. 

“I know, E. I believe you,” he said. He could feel Enjolras smile above him. “I love you.” 

“Me too, R. God, I love you,” Enjolras declared, passion building in his chest. 

“These paintings are amazing,” he told Grantaire, releasing his grip on the tux. 

“They’re you, E.” 

At Enjolras’ confused expression, the artist elaborated. 

“They’re everything you are: passion, fire, energy, anger, lust, sex, love… it’s all you, Enj.” 

“They’re incredible. Thank you,” Enjolras whispered, dazed. Grantaire’s eyes lit up, and his smile stretched across his entire face. Enjolras literally couldn’t resist. He leaned in, pulling Grantaire’s face towards him, and kissed him, pouring every emotion he’d felt in the last lonely week into the kiss. He hung on until neither one could breathe, and when he pulled away, Grantaire was smiling like the cheshire cat, lips swollen and red. Enjolras thought he was the most beautiful sight. 

“When can we get out of here?” the revolutionary asked brightly. 

“Twenty minutes,” Grantaire breathed, his voice scratching. 

“I’ll be here,” Enjolras declared. And he was, always.


End file.
